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The Convenient Grannies Helen awoke to laughter. Not a soft chuckle, nor a discreet giggle, but a booming, uninhibited guffaw completely out of place in a hospital ward—exactly the sort of laughter she couldn’t stand, and had avoided her entire life. It was coming from her bedmate, who was clutching a mobile to her ear, gesturing flamboyantly as if her conversation partner could see her antics. “Oh Len, you’ve got to be joking! Really? He actually said that? In front of everyone?” Helen glanced at the clock. Quarter to seven—fifteen precious minutes left before the nurses would rouse everyone, fifteen minutes that could have been spent in blissful silence, collecting her thoughts before surgery. The previous evening, when Helen had been wheeled into the ward, the other woman was already there, tapping rapidly on her phone. Their greetings had been concise. “Good evening”—“Hello,” and then each had retreated into her own thoughts. Helen had been thankful for the quiet. Now, all she could think was that the ward had turned into a circus. “Excuse me,” she said quietly but firmly. “Could you keep it down?” The other woman spun around. A round face, a short grey haircut that wasn’t hiding the silver, and a shockingly vibrant red polka-dot pyjama—hospital, of all places! “Oh, Len, I’ll catch you later—someone’s set on giving me a ticking-off,” she said, tucking her phone away and flashing Helen a broad smile. “Sorry about that! I’m Cath. Did you manage to get any sleep? I can never sleep before an operation, so I just call everyone I know.” “Helen. And just because you can’t sleep, doesn’t mean the rest of us want to be kept awake.” “You’re not asleep now though,” Cath winked. “All right, I promise—I’ll whisper.” She didn’t. By breakfast, she’d been on the phone twice more, and her voice was only getting louder. Helen ostentatiously turned to face the wall, blankets over her head, but it made no difference. “My daughter rang,” Cath explained over breakfast, though neither of them ate. “She worries, bless her. I try to calm her down as best I can.” Helen said nothing. Her son hadn’t phoned—not that she expected him to; he’d warned her he had an early, important meeting. She’d taught him herself: work is serious, work is responsibility. Cath was the first to be taken to theatre. She marched off down the ward, waving flamboyantly and shouting something that made the nurse laugh. Helen hoped they’d find her a new bed after the operation. Helen was wheeled off an hour later. Anaesthetic always hit her hard—she came round with nausea and a dull ache in her side. The nurse told her everything had gone well. She only needed to be patient. Patience was Helen’s forte. By evening, when she was brought back to the ward, Cath was already lying quietly, face ashen, eyes closed, a drip in her arm—the air of boisterousness gone. “How are you feeling?” Helen found herself asking, though she hadn’t meant to start a conversation. Cath opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Still here. You?” Helen nodded. “Same.” Twilight gathered outside, and the drips ticked quietly. “Sorry about this morning,” Cath said suddenly. “Whenever I’m nervous I just can’t stop talking. I know it’s annoying—I honestly can’t help it.” Helen wanted to snap, but she was just too tired. She managed, “It’s all right.” That night, neither of them slept. They both hurt—Cath didn’t phone anyone but Helen could hear her tossing and sighing. Once, it sounded like she was crying—softly, into her pillow. In the morning, the doctor did her rounds, checked dressings and temperatures, declared them both ‘doing brilliantly’, and Cath immediately grabbed her phone. “Len, hi! Yes, I’m fine! Alive and well—you can stop worrying. How are the kids? Kieran still feverish? What? Oh, he’s better? Told you there was nothing to fret about.” Helen couldn’t help but listen. “The kids”—her grandchildren, clearly. Daughter checking in. Her own phone was silent. Two texts from her son, time-stamped the evening before. “Mum, how are you?” and, “Text me when you can.” She replied: “All fine,” adding a smiley. He liked emojis, said messages seemed cold without them. Three hours later: “Great! Hugs.” “Yours aren’t coming in, then?” Cath asked later. “My son works. Lives far. No need—I’m not a child.” “Too right,” Cath nodded. “Mine says the same—‘Mum, you can manage, you’re a grown-up!’ Why come round if I’m fine, right?” Something in her voice made Helen look closely. Cath was smiling, but her eyes weren’t cheerful at all. “How many grandchildren have you got?” “Three. Kieran’s eight, then Maisie and Louis—they’re three and four.” She took her phone from the locker. “Want to see photos?” She showed photo after photo: kids in gardens, at the beach, with cakes—and on every one, she was there, arms round them, pulling faces. The daughter was missing from all pictures. “My girl takes the photos—she hates being on camera.” “Do your grandkids stay over much?” “I practically live with them! My daughter works, her husband too, so…I help—pick them up, check homework, cook.” Helen nodded. She’d been much the same—those early years, always helping out. Now she visited maybe once a month, on Sundays—if it suited everyone’s schedule. “And you?” “One grandchild. Nine. Very bright, into sports.” “See him often?” “Sundays, sometimes. They’re very busy. I do understand.” “Yeah,” Cath turned towards the window. “Busy.” Silence. Outside, rain streaked the glass. That evening, Cath muttered, “I don’t want to go home.” Helen looked up. Cath was sitting on her bed, knees pulled to her chin, staring at the floor. “I really don’t. I’ve thought and thought—and I don’t.” “Why ever not?” “What’s the point? I’ll get back, and Kieran’s not done his homework, Maisie’s snotty again, Louis has torn his trousers—my daughter’s at work till late, her husband’s always away. It’s just wash, cook, clean, help … and they don’t even—” She faltered. “They don’t even say thank you. Because I’m Nan, aren’t I? That’s what Nan is for.” Helen said nothing; there was a lump in her throat. “Sorry—” Cath wiped her eyes. “I’m coming apart, aren’t I?” “Don’t apologise,” Helen murmured. “I retired five years ago. Thought I’d finally do something for myself—go to the theatre, exhibitions. Even signed up for French classes. Lasted two weeks.” “What happened?” “My daughter-in-law went on maternity. Asked me to help out. I’m the granny—at home all day, must be easy. I could never say no.” “How was it?” “Three years, every day. Then nursery, so every other day. School—once a week. Now…now they’ve got a nanny. I just sit at home waiting for the call—if they remember.” Cath nodded. “My daughter was going to visit in November. I scrubbed the house, baked pies. Then she rang—‘Mum, sorry, Kieran’s got football, we can’t come.’” “And she didn’t?” “She didn’t. I gave the pies to a neighbour.” They lapsed into silence. Outside, rain drummed on the glass. “Do you know what hurts?” Cath said suddenly. “It’s not that they don’t visit. It’s that I still wait. I clutch my phone, thinking—maybe they’ll ring, just to say they miss me. Just for me, not because they need something.” Helen felt her eyes sting. “Me too. Every time the phone rings, I hope…maybe my son just wants to chat. But he never does. Always something practical.” “And we jump to help,” Cath managed a wan smile. “That’s what mums do.” “Yeah.” The next day, it was time for dressings—painful. Afterwards, both women lay in silence, until Cath suddenly said: “I always thought I had a happy family. Beloved daughter, decent son-in-law, lovely grandkids. I thought they needed me. That they couldn’t cope without me.” “And?” “And I realised in here—they cope just fine. My daughter hasn’t once said she’s struggling. In fact, she seems fine. It’s just easy when there’s a granny-nanny around.” Helen propped herself up. “I’ve realised it’s my fault. I taught my son that mum would always help, always drop everything, always wait. That my plans didn’t matter, but his were sacred.” “I did the same,” Cath sighed. “Drop everything when my daughter rings.” “We taught them we’re not people,” Helen said quietly. “That we don’t have our own lives.” Cath nodded, silent. “And now?” “I don’t know.” By the fifth day, Helen was getting out of bed unaided. By the sixth, she could walk to the end of the corridor. Cath lagged a day behind, but persisted. Together, they shuffled along the ward, gripping the handrail. “After my husband died, I lost all direction,” Cath said. “My daughter said—‘Mum, you’ve got a new purpose: the grandkids. Live for them.’ So I did. But it’s one-way traffic—I give everything, they only give back when it’s convenient.” Helen told her about her own divorce, thirty years earlier. Bringing her son up alone, studying at night, juggling two jobs. “I thought if I was the perfect mother, my son would be a perfect son. If I gave everything, he’d be grateful.” “But he grew up and got on with his own life,” Cath finished. “Yes. Which is normal, I suppose. I just didn’t expect to be so lonely.” “Neither did I.” On the seventh day, Helen’s son visited. No warning, just appeared at the door—tall, expensive coat, bag of fruit. “Mum! How are you? Feeling better?” “Better.” “Great! Doctor says just a few more days. Thought you might come stay with us awhile? The guest room’s free.” “Thanks, but I’ll be better off at home.” “Whatever you think. Just shout if you want collecting.” He stayed twenty minutes—chatted about work, the car, the grandchild, asked if she needed money. Promised to call by next week. Left—relieved, it seemed. Cath was lying on her bed, pretending to sleep. After he’d gone, she opened her eyes. “Yours?” Helen nodded. “Yes.” “He’s handsome.” “Mm.” “And cold as ice.” Helen couldn’t answer. Her throat ached. “You know,” Cath said gently. “Maybe we need to stop waiting for them to love us. Just…let go. Accept they’ve grown up, have their own lives. And we need to find ours.” “Easy to say.” “Hard to do. But what’s the alternative—waiting endlessly for them to remember us?” “What did you tell them?” Helen said, switching to ‘you’ without realising. “My daughter? I said after discharge I’d rest for a fortnight. Doctor’s orders—no childcare. She protested, but I told her—‘Len, you’re grown up, you can manage. I can’t help just yet.’” “She was upset?” “Sulking, yes!” Cath chuckled. “But you know what? I felt lighter. As if I’d shed something heavy.” Helen shut her eyes. “I’m afraid. If I say no, if I refuse, they’ll take offence. Might stop calling altogether.” “Do they call much as it is?” Silence. “Exactly. It can only get better.” On the eighth day, they were discharged together. They packed in silence, as if for ever. “Let’s swap numbers,” Cath suggested. Helen nodded. They put each other in their phones. Stood awkwardly. “Thank you,” said Helen. “For being here.” “And thank you. You know … I’ve not talked like this in thirty years. About real things.” “Me neither.” They hugged, carefully, wounds wary. The nurse brought their papers and called taxis. Helen went first. Home was silent and empty. She unpacked, showered, lay on the sofa. Her phone had three texts from her son: “Mum, home yet?”, “Call when in,” “Don’t forget your tablets.” She texted, “Home. Fine.” Set her phone down. She got up, opened the cupboard, took out a folder untouched for five years. Inside, a French course pamphlet and a season ticket schedule for the Philharmonic. She stared at the leaflet. Considered. The phone rang—Cath. “Hi. Sorry, is this too soon? Just—felt like calling.” “I’m glad you did. Really.” “How about we meet up? Once we’re strong again. Two weeks maybe—tea somewhere? Or just a walk? If you’d like to.” Helen looked at the leaflet, then at her phone, then back again. “I’d love to. I don’t want to wait two weeks. Saturday? I’m tired of staying in.” “Saturday? You sure? Doctors said—” “They did. But I’ve spent thirty years putting everyone else first. Time to think of myself.” “Saturday, then.” They said their goodbyes. Helen picked up the brochure again. French classes started in a month—enrolment still open. She opened her laptop and started filling out the application. Her hands trembled, but she kept going. All the way. Outside, the rain had stopped; pale autumn sun was peeking through the clouds. Helen suddenly thought—maybe life was only just beginning. And hit ‘Submit’.

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